They are bringing out the woman whose progress matched his through the final trials.

He will live forever, ascendant and resplendent and manifest, and all who challenge his dominion will fall, swept away like shadows on the snow. He is the Winter King, chosen and blooded and preordained. He refuses to accept that ending for himself. Well, those who wish to be damned will always find a way to be damned. He was the last potential scion of Winter to enter the labyrinth, and the woman would not refuse her crown he did what had to be done. Their ascensions were apparently less violent in the past, with the losers going easy to their fates. They began chanting the proper rituals as soon as he slew the last contender for his position, cutting the woman down with a viciousness that seemed to shock the onlookers as much as it shocked her. If anything, the real surprise is that the people here, natives and colonists alike, seem to know the rite of seasons as well as they do. When he felt his blood turn to ice in his veins and the frost coming to his call, he knew what that meant, even before that Irish boy who had to be taught proper manners and comportment came to claim him and lead him through the trials. There was no bean in his bread, but he has always known the rite of seasons and where it must inevitably lead. He is proud to represent Queen and Country in this new land, to tie it more tightly to Empire through this most familiar of rituals. Well, these people will see, won’t they? God intended this country for the use of England and the English peoples, and the Empire is eternal, even on these distant shores. As if it’s so odd for a man of his station and breeding to have been inducted into the mysteries. The people stare because they don’t approve of his presence, he knows they believe the seasons belong to them and with them, and not to upstart settlers like himself.Īs if there weren’t seasons the world over.

Some of the people in the crowd are staring at him as he walks toward the dais prepared by the attendants. Well, prepared or not, he is still the winner, and this is still his crown.

It would be different if he had been coronated in England, where his roots still lie he would understand every spoken word and every aspect of the spectacle around him. Most of them aren’t even speaking English, as if their heathen incantations can have any meaning for a good Christian man! To be sure, this is a pagan ritual at best, but he tries not to think about the contradiction, especially now that his future is committed. The chanting has died to a dull murmur, with only the people at the back of the crowd still saying anything at all. CALENDAR SEASON: MAY 15TH, 1730: WANING SPRING, UNDER THE FLOWER MOON.

Middle game seanan mcguire